Modern Love
by gschelt
Summary: "Blips on your emotional meter you can handle. But it's the physical things, like your pulse, that give you trouble." Fiona/HollyJ, set pre-DTM. Femslash.
1. Modern Love

_**Author's Note: **This is my baby. I've been working on this, chipping away at it a little at a time, for most of the summer. It's the pairing I've been obsessed with recently, the underexplored pairing that, well... needs to be explored. Thanks to awriterscorned for obsessing with me over everything to do with this pairing, and also pretty much everything to do with Degrassi, now that I mention it.  
This is set pre-DegrassiTakesManhattan (that movie crushed all my dreams for Holly J. and Fiona). The Coynes still go to Degrassi, everything is lovely, Riley & Fiona don't hate each other (she has to be his faghag, it's just too cute).  
Please reviewreviewreview. :)_

* * *

_It ended, and the morrow brought the task.  
__Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him in  
__By shutting all too zealous for their sin:  
__Each sucked a secret, and each wore a mask.  
__-from __Modern Love__,  
__by George Meredith_

He doesn't know right away. It's all about him to begin with, so the focus doesn't turn to you for a while. You had dreaded it, actually, all the while, hoping Riley would always stay insecure and dramatic, and you could both just concentrate on that. You could just stay his beard, his cover-up for a time, and why? Out of the goodness of your heart? The honest people would say you're not even like that. You really aren't.

But then you quit, didn't want to anymore, and blessedly the focus was still on him. And he never asked, because he was so busy struggling with himself, why you agreed to date him in the first place. Because you're not just _nice_ like that. It was after a few months, when Riley got around to cooling off and quit hating himself, that he turned to you with those mild eyes that could sometimes be so vulnerable and innocent, and he finally asked. And all that attention was on you, waiting and patient, genuine concern in every one of his pores. And it's partly because you're close again, close good friends again (for the first time?), that you tell him. And it's partly because you know that you can trust him, and you know how good he is with deep dark secrets. That's why you tell him, but of course you don't spill right away.

At first, you challenge him with a stare, exhaling through your nostrils, and deny that there's even anything to ask about. But now he's changed, and he's a really _good_ friend, and he pushes, but not in a cajoling way. He just looks at you, not impatient or knowing or sympathetic, none of which you could probably stand. He just looks at you with those eyes, the bluish-green color of his irises so curious they're almost sad. And the thing is, he's not so much thinking along the lines of pretty much the _only_ reason you would have gone along with dating him for show; he hasn't even assumed anything. No, it's more like he asked himself one day _why_ it happened, noticed one day there's maybe _not_ just cold in your equally blue eyes but maybe something else, something afflicted. And _that's_ why he asks, and that's really the difference that signals he's a good friend now; he saw your eyes.

"I'm gay."

You don't know how it's possible for teeth to be expressive, but when his lips part it's the exposed white teeth that show the most shock. His whole mouth does, really, but not because it hangs open or anything clearly indicative of surprise; really, it's because it's at a loss for what to do.

"As well," you add, unnecessarily, when he doesn't say anything right away. It's like the idiotic addition was stuck in the back of your throat, and a nervous cough forced it out of you.

You zoom out from looking right at him and scan your surroundings, which you do when you're nervous (this feeling, you loathe with a passion) and need to regain your bearings.

The picnic table you sit at is green and chipped, an odd juxtaposition to your ripped gray designer jeans. The sky over the trees matches those, though, and the jungle gym's cold metal is the same muted red as the blouse whose collar is showing under your pea coat. Shouts from a couple hardy kids out running around the playground in the sharp November wind echo across the bike trail (the concrete is the same shade as several flecks in your eyes). You'll never admit that you secretly regard your surroundings in terms of how it matches you, what you're wearing; that you'll take to your grave, because people already think you're enough of a shallow, self-obsessed bitch.

"Fiona…" Riley says softly.

You look back to him, and his eyes hold all the understanding in the world.

"Are you really?" he asks gently, and you could have sworn he sounds frightened for you. As if you're not frightened enough already.

"Yeah." This is new to you. You've never "come out" to anyone before, so you're scared, even though you trust Riley. You haven't decided yet if you're going to be like him: tense, insecure, so deeply closeted that any little slip would ruin you. It hasn't really got that bad, but then again you really haven't been at Degrassi long enough for people to wonder why you don't go with any guys here. You can blame that disinterest on being a snob; see, it's good for something. But it will only last for so long. After Riley there might be more.

"Who else knows?" he asks, leaning up on the table and surveying you. "Declan?"

"No," you murmur, shaking your head. You know it's odd, since he's your brother who loves you no matter what, and aside from Riley he's your best friend, your only other friend. It's odd that he doesn't know. Riley's going to get it out of your eventually.

"Riley," you sigh, uncrossing and recrossing your legs before he can ask why Declan doesn't know. Actually, you don't know how you were planning on explaining this part. Without this part, coming out to Riley is bearable, maybe even easy. But there's this guilt that you've got that makes you feel horrible, and it transfers over in so many ways where you _illogically_ feel terrible about not being straight, and you _illogically_ kind of blame and resent Holly J. for being the catalyst.

"I have feelings for his girlfriend," you admit, your voice unintentionally coming out softer than you've heard it in a long while. It's hard to maintain eye contact with Riley; the guilt is so much that it makes you want to suffer alone, and looking away is almost close to solitude.

"Holly J.?" he asks soberly, but the surprise is renewed on his mouth. When he says her name you get goosebumps that have nothing to do with the stinging wind on your forearms, crawling up to your shoulders, and you remember why you've got it bad.

"Yeah." This is another first, still new to you, because you've never confessed to a friend about someone you really and _truly_ like. It's not like the giggling between girls; since you're gay, telling about crushes with Riley is like somberly divulging old war stories. All because of how hopeless the sparks of want for a straight person always are. You hate the pessimism, the funeral atmosphere, how dramatic it has to be. You don't consider yourself tormented by this burden; instead you're pissed off at the way things have to work. Maybe that's why this moment is ending with Riley taking your hand as you nod stoically, not with you crying on his shoulder. Maybe that's why you're not going to end up a sad cliché.

You don't like letting conventionality dictate you.

Most of the time, and in regards to most subjects, you're on top of things. You always make sure to keep delicate balances, tie up loose ends, and resolve things. It makes sleeping at night effortless, and mental multitasking unproblematic. So when you lose control over just one thing, it's not too bad. Not when you've got everything else where it belongs; then, managing this is so much easier. Always practical, you look at Riley and think, at least you're struggling with anger and therapy and insecurity on top of everything. Your problem is only the problem of controlling your heartbeat.

It skips and stumbles and sprints for her, for Holly J., and that really complicates things. Blips on your emotional meter you can handle. You're good with emotions, and you always have been; they're easy to apprehend and hide, you've found. But it's the physical things, like your pulse, that give you trouble.

It's not the sensation itself that's bad; in fact, the jitters and goosebumps, the chills and flashes of heat, they're a thousand times better than the most expensive deep tissue massage you've ever had back in Manhattan. Yes, admittedly, there's that part of crushing on Holly J. that's good, the way romance is supposed to be. The part where touching (never more than a quick brush or even an accident), seeing (you go out of your way often to do so, even if just for a few seconds), talking to (politeness and quick words, never meaning much or doing enough), or thinking about (it happens too much to be harmless) her is like a drug, an aphrodisiac of some kind. But it's the accompanied effects that give you trouble, and not just because they startle you (the first time you ever heard Holly J.'s voice lowered to a whisper, the rippling waves of arousal that quaked around your pelvis were so strong and sudden that you very nearly gasped aloud). It's the fact that things like that are incriminating; they give your body visible signs of what you're feeling. After you'd told Riley about your feelings for Holly J. he'd said, a passing whisper in the hall a few days later,

"You know, now I can tell. There's like an instant where your body does a double take when she gets closer to you, you know?" And even though you know it's subtle, even though you know it's something Riley only noticed because he knew what to look for, you know that it _is_ visible, and other people can pick up on it, and they can guess. The general student body, you don't much care, because who cares enough to pay that close of attention? But what if Declan noticed your slip-ups, what if he added it all up? Or worse – oh god – what if Holly J. figured it out? Your feelings for her run deep, deeper than you'd like, but her finding out could only be a disaster. You can keep your emotions a tight-lipped secret; words and thoughts can't leak from your ears. It's the irrepressible, automatic body language responses that could very well be the death of you.


	2. Within A Flower

_I hide myself within my flower,  
__That wearing on your breast,  
__You, unsuspecting, wear me too-  
__And angels know the rest.  
__I hide myself within my flower,  
__That, fading from your vase,  
__You, unsuspecting, feel for me_  
_Almost a loneliness.  
__-__Within A Flower__,  
__by Emily Dickinson_

At first you thought it would be best if you made yourself scarce whenever Holly J. came around to see Declan; you wouldn't have to suffer through seeing her with your brother (which will always hurt you even though he's your brother and you love him, and maybe it will hurt you even more because of that), and you wouldn't be making a fool of yourself and giving anyone a chance to read your body language upstairs in your room. But you decide against that tactic after a little time; fleeing is the cowardly thing to do, and you've got way too much pride for that. You'd decided long ago that you're going to hand this same-sex crush thing in your own way, and that means no compromise. You're not going to uproot and leave a room for _her_, oh no. You would do a lot of things for her if she ever needed her to, actually (though she would probably never think so, the way, you're ice towards her), but that's not one of them. It's your house, why should you do any relocating?

… Besides, the chance to see her or even speak to her is too tempting. You're loath to admit this, even to your own proud and stubborn self, but the fact of the matter is that you _do_ like her very much, and being around her _does_ make your heart thrill with exhilaration no matter what.

It's been a couple months now, so Holly J. walks in the house like she lives here too. She wanders into the main sitting room, where you distractedly (even more distractedly now) watch reality TV on the plasma flat-screen. You look up with little interest evident on your face (though your pulse is picking up, see, it _is_ easy to wear a mask).

"Hey," you acknowledge, eyes flickering over your shoulder to take her in top to bottom. You wonder what she thinks of you when you do this, if she thinks you're picking apart her outfit to mentally critique it. It would be like you to do that, wouldn't it? But actually, you focus on her pieces and calculate what you own that could match, what outfit you could put together that would complement hers. Her silver flats, your Tiffany's locket. That wide green belt on her, a contrasting bright blue for your heels. Identical vanilla lip gloss.

You combine it in your head – you and her, matching – and together you look perfect. Achingly perfect.

Also, admittedly, you just love looking at her because she's extremely attractive. That's a given.

"Hey," Holly J. replies, ignoring (or not noticing) your sweeping glance. She stands behind an armchair, looking around the room. "I take it your brother's not ready yet."

"Yep," you reply simply. Your phone, sitting next to you on the couch, buzzes suddenly. Holly J. glances over at it as you flip it open to read the message. It's from Riley.

_is she there yet? u should talk 2 her!_

You roll your eyes at him like you always do when he pushes you on hopefully towards Holly J. He means well, but it's blatant hypocrisy because even though he really _does_ want to see you happy, following his own advice would never happen with him so deeply closeted like this. You think he encourages partly because it makes him happily distracted from himself.

Abruptly, you clear your throat. "Have a seat," you say matter-of-factly, looking anywhere but at Holly J. "If Declan hasn't started his hair yet, he'll be a while still."

She smiles and shakes her head, shedding her stylishly cut plaid coat (Burberry?) as she moves to sit down in the chair she'd been leaning on. It's possible you catch mild surprise on her exquisite lips (don't think what you're thinking about those lips _now_, not with your brother just upstairs, not with her just a few feet away); is it surprise that you'd been welcoming, that you'd actually cracked a joke? It actually saddens you just a bit that no one but Declan or Riley could expect you to be anything but bitchy.

And because you didn't get that reputation for _no_ reason, you get pissed off at your being maligned. Of course you would get angry (but not Riley-angry) directly from your pride, it's who you are. So, what happens next could go one of two ways: you could turn ahead, stone-faced, and broodingly ignore Holly J.'s presence, or you could-

"I like your flats," you say sincerely, though the sincerity is slightly lost through your gritted teeth.

Holly J. looks a bit taken aback. "Thanks, Fiona," she says, glancing down at her silver shoes. And you're not delusional, you know there's reason for her to think you don't care for her at all, the way you _act_.

But you're too stubborn to let your _own_ conventionality dictate how this happens.

"But it needs something else," you continue glossily, allowing yourself a glance over at her, like you hadn't analyzed her outfit already (this gives you an excuse to steal a look at her impossibly smooth legs; that's how they _look_, at least, how you imagine they feel). "Here."

And you get to your feet, and hold out your hand to Holly J. She hesitates for a second. "Come on," you chide gently, and she takes your hand. As you pull her to her feet, simple, gratifying sparks shoot from the nerve endings in your fingers. Her grip is warmer than you'd imagined (and yes, admittedly, you'd imagined it), but exactly as firm as you knew it had to be. You release her hand when she's on her feet (don't want to get ahead of yourself) and lead her across the foyer and up the stairs.

You take her up to your bedroom, silently grateful that you keep it clean at all times. Switching on the lights, you sigh in relief. No underwear lying out. And – thank god – Riley's issue of The Advocate he'd lent you is under the bed. Nothing in sight but tasteful decorating.

Holly J. follows you in, looking around for the first time at your room as you go to your vanity and rummage in your jewelry drawer, back to her.

"Here," you announce offhandedly, turning back to Holly J. with a silver chain dangling from your outstretched hand.

"But…" she hesitates, confused, as she slowly takes the offered heart-shaped locket.

"Wear this," you say briskly. "I insist."

"Wow," she murmurs, turning the locket over in her hand and examining the Tiffany's seal as she walks over to the vanity mirror. "I – thanks."

"Mhmm," you hum by way of welcome as you watch her work on the clasp behind her neck. "Here," you offer (impulsively) for the third time, coming up behind her. "Let me get it."

You gently take the clasp from her and fix it together, fingers brushing the fine strawberry-blonde hairs on the nape of her neck. Goosebumps creep up your arms as you keep your face blank, praying that you don't tremble, and you realize this is the closest you've ever been to your crush. It's possibly the closest you may ever realistically get; you can smell her Chanel, you can feel the delicate heat glowing from her skin. If you were paying attention to the face in the mirror, maybe you would have noticed the heat was the faintest of blushes ghosting Holly J.'s cheekbones.

"There," you murmur when the clasp catches, taking a step back. Holly J. turns her head over her shoulder.

"Thanks," she says. "Thanks so much." She turns fully around to face you, and the surprise is still there, the mild shock throughout this whole thing at your out-of-character generosity. "I'll have this back to you on Monday, okay?"

It's a close call. You almost tell her not to worry about it, your own way of saying to keep it, but you bite back the impulse like you smother all of your other stimuli. You don't want to confuse her. Instead, you say "Yeah. Okay." And you wonder what to do next. Holly J. looks at you for a second, then opens her mouth, about to say something.

"I-"

A knock on your door interrupts.

"Come in," you call automatically (and why should you hesitate? There's nothing going on here).

The door opens and Declan's curious head emerges. "Oh," he acknowledges, breaking into a grin at the sight of you two. "There you are. The empty living room kind of threw me off."

Holly J. gives a faint smile, which you mirror, and goes over to him. "You ready now?"

Declan flashes his dazzling smile and takes his girlfriend's hand. "Sure am. Let's head out." You take a snapshot of this in your head against your will, the image of the happy couple; fingers brushing, gazes flickering to meet like weak magnets. The sparks you felt when you took Holly J.'s hand for yourself, you recreate that also in your mind so you don't forget it, as you turn away to shut the jewelry drawer of your vanity.

"Have fun," you say woodenly, trying to force as much disinterest as you can by avoiding looking at them.

"Thanks," Declan replies, and moves to leave. "Don't wait up, okay, mom?" He winks. You realize that he hasn't taken note of your recent melancholy lately; Riley noticed something was up before your own brother. But maybe it's best that way, you think with a grimace.

"'Bye," Holly J. says, following Declan. And maybe, for just a fraction of a second, her gaze hooks on you and narrows in brief concern at your visible apathy. Before you turn around and busy yourself at the vanity so that she can't catch anything else incriminating in your eyes (or these shaking hands, god forbid), she leaves. Just for you, it seems, the heart-shaped locket at her throat catches the light and flashes before it disappears from sight.

Fuck, you like her far too much. She's your brother's girlfriend, and that makes it worse in so many ways. You have to watch her with someone _else_ that you care about, and you have to watch it often, in your own house. In your own room.

It's all rather disheartening.


	3. Her Faulty Heart

_Long ago I gave up singing  
__to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled.  
__One night I will say to it:  
__Heart, be still,  
__and it will.  
__-from __The Woman Who Could Not Live with Her Faulty Heart__,  
__by Margaret Atwood_

About half the time you skip lunch in favor of reading in the library (right now you're working your way through _Atlas Shrugged_), but today you're in the cafeteria with Riley, picking at a salad while he finishes his yogurt.

"So when did you know?" he asks out of nowhere. "That you were… you know, gay."

You twist your fork absently, staring at the thick pearl bracelet on your wrist. You wouldn't associate a girl who would wear a bracelet like this with the word _gay_. No; high class, high fashion, all around power women go best with… But you imagine some kind of a cutting edge city career woman with a man, and it doesn't mesh in your mind at all. He's too plain. He can't keep up. Two of these women, though, they not only look like solid gold together, it makes _sense_ in visual form. It's a force to be reckoned with.

"I guess it's just always made _sense_ to me," you try to explain. "As long as I can remember. Admiration and hero worship for strong women, it was always there and always normal, but after a while it changed, it evolved, and I knew that that was what made the most sense, and what fit together most perfectly. A girl and a girl. Me and a girl."

Riley stares at you for a minute, processing. "Wow," he says finally, "So it was… it was that easy?"

You know your story sounds far too simple, lacking the torture and self-hatred that Riley is so accustomed to. But you can't help your attitude.

"Yeah," you reply, looking away and shrugging. "I just never saw the point to beating myself up over it. Why should I, when it really all just comes down to fear of what people think? That's all it is, in the end, and I know that it's only my opinion that matters to me. I don't see why I should hate anything about myself."

"I envy you," Riley responds softly, shaking his head. "You've got such a strong outlook, I wish I could be the same."

You smile shyly and shrug. You can't pretend that you haven't had any insecurities, because you have, and you still do. In comparison to Riley, you are much more self-confident, but you still don't find it completely painless. You may be totally fine with yourself, but you still worry about what the people you care about will think. Your parents. Declan. Declan, above all.

You needle yourself incessantly worrying about what he would think, what he would do if he found out what you're hiding from him. He's your brother, your best friend in the world, and he always has been (but has he been lately?), so his opinion means the world and more to you.

What happens when he finds out? What if he can never look at you the same way? Or worse – you can hardly stomach the thought – what if he finds out how you feel about Holly J.? It could ruin your relationship. You think about it, fleetingly, and you can't help it; your skin crawls. You hug your arms closer to your body.

"Fiona, hey."

But the voice isn't Riley's. You know because his deep voice doesn't sound like a piano, the way this one does. You look up, and it's Holly J. coming around your table.

"Hey," she says with a smile when you meet her eyes.

"Oh, hi," you reply, trying to smother the irrepressible flustered feelings that flare up. That means trying to keep your hands completely still. And ignoring the bemused and unbearably _knowing_ smirk that Riley is shooting you.

"Here's your necklace back," Holly J. says, digging in her purse and withdrawing the silver chain. She holds it out to you. "Thanks for lending it out to me, it's beautiful."

A reply that echoes her last clause races foolishly through your thoughts. _You're beautiful_, you imagine yourself saying. But when you imagine it, there's moonlight. And there is barely an inch between her lips and yours. You chase the image away, though, like smoke, so you can find real words to say. It shouldn't have to be this difficult.

"It's no problem," you respond, somewhat hoarsely, and allow a small smile as you reach out to take the necklace. Holly J. doesn't drop the chain into your palm; the silver chain is warm inside her curled fist, and instead she puts her hand on yours before releasing the precious cargo. Something about the way she does this makes time stand still _just_ for a moment. Your foolish heart shudders with pleasure.

But that all happens in just half a second. It's far too quick for Holly J. to even blink at the contact, so she won't have even noticed the warmth that blossoms. How can she not feel it, though, when ripples radiate from your palm through your entire body? How can she not feel anything?

"Thanks." You smile, trying not to speak in a whisper, trying to break your hypnosis. It's humiliating, the way you're reduced to this; the _essence_ of calm, cool, and collected, reduced to a helpless cliché, while Holly J. just flashes her straight white teeth in an effortless grin.

"No," she replies, "thank _you_." She quirks her eyebrows puzzlingly (what does that mean?) before she turns to walk away, and you have another precious nanosecond to marvel that just one act of kindness on your part changes things so drastically. Your rapport with Holly J. has turned from remote to promising, and just because you acted on rash impulse. If you allowed _all_ of your impulses, though, you'd be giving her every diamond and pearl in your vanity's jewelry drawer, among doing other things. But if there's one thing that scares you almost as much as physical reactions, it's impulses. They're dangerous things, impulses, tempting and volatile. They could ruin you if you let them. They tug on your fingers, propel your limbs, push your lips to movement. It's a good thing you've mastered self-control years ago, or else your impulses to kiss Holly J. would quite possibly be the death of you.

"So… how long?"

You look back over to Riley, leaning across the table towards you, his eyes gleaming. You had almost forgotten he was there, sadly enough.

"How long what?" you respond distractedly, turning back to catch one more glimpse of Holly J. leaving the cafeteria.

Riley follows your gaze. "Man, you've got it bad," he sighs, shaking his head in amazement. "How long have you been in love with Holly J.?"

You roll your eyes. "Don't say '_in love_', Riley, god. Way to make me feel more pathetic."

"Okay," he counters smoothly, leaning back. "How long have you had the hots for your brother's girlfriend?" When he smirks at the cringe you can't repress, you swear you're going to die on the spot.

"Much better," you reply dryly, "That way of putting it goes down much smoother."

Riley shrugs, grinning nonchalantly. "Better than 'in love', isn't it? Now how long?"

You shrug. "I don't know, a month? Month and a half, maybe more? There wasn't, like, any defining moment when I _knew_, no benchmark I can trace it back to."

"None at all?" Riley gently prods, leaning in more.

"Well," you sigh, casting your eyes around you for inspiration, "I don't know, there could be. I'm trying to think."

"Think harder," Riley chides with a grin. "Inquiring minds want to know."

* * *

You didn't even want to come to this dance in the first place. It was Declan who forced you to come along, maintaining that you would have a good time. You tried to tell him it's the sort of thing you don't enjoy if you don't have friends, but instead it came out as complaining that you didn't have a date. Declan just laughed and insisted it didn't matter, his girlfriend had to work that night and _he_ was still going. Once you'd started, though, you kept up the protesting; pulling out the elitist card you weren't ashamed to use and pointing out this thing would be in a _gymnasium_, and there would be garish crepe paper and some horrible store-bought punch. Any reason not to go, you dredged it up and objected stubbornly. Declan defended the decorations, explaining their quaint appeal, but his mind was already made up anyway that you go.

Why would he even be surprised, then, when you weren't the best of company? You dragged your feet sourly like a pro, dead set against having a good time, mouth sewn obstinately shut. Declan sighed and chided you to quit being grouchy, grabbing for your hands on several occasions to try and drag you out on the dance floor. On the one hand you were pleased by his efforts, glad to get attention from the old Declan, your best friend. On the other hand, however, you really didn't want to be there. You would never in a million years admit this as a reason, but watching everyone else have fun kind of made you bitter.

It took a lot longer than you thought to slip away. Declan, surprisingly enough, was giving you most of his attention and _almost_ making this event fun. After a little while, though, some guys he was friends with distracted him, and you muttered something about the restroom as you discreetly broke off from his side and left the gym. You smoothed your dress (far too nice for this insipid little occasion, for this whole school, probably) and breathed deep once you made it out into the cool, crisp evening air. Anything was better than the stuffy, deafening atmosphere of the dance. The music wasn't even that good; just a mixture of overplayed pop music and rehashed, unoriginal emo songs.

You decided to just go across the street to The Dot; there wasn't much of a choice anyway. It was quiet, and there was coffee with free refills. You could just wait for Declan there; it probably wouldn't be long, actually, until he called or texted you to figure out where you disappeared to, and then you could complain until he got exasperated and took you home.

The place was pretty dead. Most of the regulars at The Dot were Degrassi students, and they were all mostly at the dance. Just a few nondescript customers sat with their heads low, sipping from their mugs and reading or working on their laptops. You sat down in a corner by the window, watching the cars steal by down the black street until Holly J. came to your table.

"Fiona, hey," she said, unfurling her waitress's notepad with a note of surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Ordering coffee," you replied dully, checking your phone for any messages from Declan. "About to be, at least."

Holly J.'s brow furrowed slightly, unimpressed by your sarcasm. It always entertained you to observe how this girl dealt with what she so religiously dished out. "Were you over at the dance?" she asked conversationally. "Did Declan take you?"

"Yeah," you said with a sigh, disappointed that there were no new alerts for you on your phone. "Don't worry, though, nothing on you. He took me out of convenience, I wasn't his first choice."

She shrugged, a wry smile creeping up her lips. "Even though that sure as hell better be true, I'm glad he took you."

"Yeah, me too," you commented dryly, leaning back in your chair.

Holly J. tucked back a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail, looking you up and down for a moment and taking in your apathy. "…That bad, huh?"

"Unbearably. Could I have a double shot please?"

She sighed, nodded curtly, and went back to get your coffee. You felt just slightly bad for being rude to her, but the feeling was nothing more than a flicker. For one thing, this was the queen of bitchy teenage girls here. The alpha female. If anyone could handle some attitude – no, if anyone might just _deserve_ it, it was Holly J. Sinclair. Besides, she was single-handedly breaking apart your friendship with Declan, and doing a damn good job of it, too. It was only normal for you to be just a little bitter about it, wasn't it?

But there you were thinking like you hated the girl or something. You heaved a deep, world-weary sigh and turned back to the window and the pavement beyond it. You really didn't hate her at all. Sure, you'd never actually thought you did hate the girl, but this was the first time you'd actually stopped and addressed it. No, you didn't hate her. In fact, besides the fact that she was taking all of your brother's time and attention (which really isn't her fault anyway), she was a pretty cool individual. You thought so, at least. It was something you'd never admitted to yourself before, and something you'd never really recognized, but Holly J. was sort of admirable. She had just the sort of strong personality you admired, not to mention ambition and an iron will. Those types of qualities were always revered in the circles your family traversed, and you were brought up thinking so too. It must have been why Declan liked her so much.

At this point, you leaned back to think more deeply. To get to the crux of Holly J.'s character and figure out how to avoid butting heads with her, you had to find a way to like her. And in order to do that, you had to see what Declan saw in her.

Well, he was brought up the same as you. He was taught by your parents the values of ambition, drive, and intense self-confidence, just as you were. Holly J. had all those, so there was that. Then there was the fact that she stood out; Declan pursued lots of girls, but a girl that wasn't run-of-the-mill was bound to catch his eye. Plus the fact that she was practically unattainable, that had to have made her totally irresistible.

The girl was smart too, and that was a definite turn-on for Declan. For someone who loved riddles so much, and who always played chess with you when you were younger, a girl who was clever was a good find. Not to mention her style; it's hard to shrug off preconceived biases, and the Coynes were no different. Sophistication and urbane fashion always went over well with the upper set, and Holly J. definitely had that.

Thoughtfully, you inclined your head just slightly to catch a glimpse of Holly J. up at the counter as she filled your mug. Sure, she was toned down a bit in her work uniform, a black apron, and a ponytail, but you could still see how she was absolutely beautiful. Her hair had that strawberry tint to it that you could almost smell, like a reminder of fruit in the summer and everything else (sunshine, sandals, sunflower seeds) those months had to offer. The intelligent arch of her eyebrows and the challenging glint in her opaque green-gray eyes always set that innocent appeal off with a sharp edge, in a way that only a combination of looks and character could do. If Holly J. had an identical twin with a photo negative personality, she wouldn't be the same beautiful as the original. Her moxie put that brilliant gleam in her eye.

You were so caught up in your scan of Holly J. – hypnotized, almost – that you had to shake your head and snap out of it when she was nearly right at your table with your coffee.

"Double shot," she announced, setting the mug down in front of you. And in that moment, you were so caught up in Declan's head that his girlfriend's movements went in slow motion and every fraction of her action was absolutely radiant. Your breath caught in your throat at the absurd sensation of epiphany: so this was what it was like to have such an intense spiritual cord between twins that you were seeing things from his brain. So this was what it was like to see Holly J. through the lens of attraction. So this was what it was like to have possibly already separated your thought process from Declan's minutes ago in the progress of your contemplation.

Yes, it was possible that you immersed yourself so far in your brother's head that even when you reverted back to your own point of view you still thought his girlfriend was perfect.

All you could do was open and close your mouth once or twice, such was the impact of this revelation. You tried so hard to make nice in your brain and find a way to like Holly J. that you overshot it. You had somehow found a way to look at her so closely that you uncovered a multitude of ways one could fall for her. It was doing bizarre things to you, as the coffee's steam misted sluggishly up and danced before your face.

"You're welcome," Holly J. muttered, forcing a grim smile before she turned on her heel and walked away.

"Yeah," you replied feebly (no one heard it but you) to her retreating figure. It was a gorgeous figure, too. A sudden question of how it felt for Declan to run the palms of his hands from her sides to her hips raced across your thoughts.

It was now more imperative than ever that this dance get over with so you could go home.


End file.
